This fountain of benevolence was also to offer that can at all avail me. But what dried up in its turn. But better days came atonement can be made I am come to make. back to him. He made his peace with the Here is the key of a cupboard a cupboard promoters and proprietors of the "Protes- in an inn at Bath, in which at least, I tant Guard." And he was taken into fa- confidently believe so - you will find what vour, as one whom none could rival in fear- was taken away from the house this mornless and vehement denunciation of religious ing. And and there's something besides. error. After seeking rest in vain for so long, This paper was stolen out of poor Mrs. he has found his way into the old habitation, Campion's desk after she died." And Miss -I must not say with any spirits yet more Varnish put it into Mr. Gerald's hands. It wicked than himself. You may hear him at needed only such acquaintance as a minute meetings in which people, at once worthier could ensure, to teach him that it merited and sillier than himself find an unaccounta- all his attention. Then, putting it away for ble source of satisfaction; or you may be- the moment, he turned to the person who had hold him, any Sunday, glaring with unutte- brought it. rable anger, at the ceremonial of some ritualistic church. It is a pity that any, whether in sympathy or opposition, should elevate him into importance. But important, after a fashion, he really is; and in prosperity he may be said to exist; nor need we suppose that it will ever fail him. Alas! Is the child yet born who shall behold the day when profit can be no longer made out of religious bigotry, religious error, and religious hatred? But the course of our friends - the friends of this history was never again crossed or impelled by the presence or influence of Mr. Murphy M'Quantigan. And so he vanishes out of our narrative for ever and for ever more. Miss Varnish must detain us yet a little longer. She stopped the fly at the gate in the wood. She felt she must enter as seeretly as possible, or she might not be permitted to enter at all. She found the way open before her into the grounds, and she stepped into the Italian garden, mentioned so often before. The rain was long since over, and the clouds were breaking all over the sky. Mr. Gerald Campion was pacing slowly up and down, that garden, alone. He looked very grave and sad; nor did his countenance brighten when he saw her suddenly appear before him. She burst forth with an appeal, which had been calculated beforehand, but which was by no means utterly insincere. "I-I, of course, am gratified - truly gratified, Miss Varnish, to see that hem better feelings have asserted themselves over temptations which have which have proved somewhat alarmingly powerful. And I would not withhold Miss Varnish brightened up at these last words. "I would not withhold my sincerest hopes, that the future spent in a somewhat distant scene, may-may furnish a happy contrast with the deplorable events of the recent past; and to that good resolution I would commend you. It cannot be your wish that I should detain you." "I have forfeited all claims to your consideration, Mr. Campion, I am but too well aware; yet, I know you have a kind and generous heart. May I may I hope that you will not stand in the way of my gaining a living elsewhere?" "I would not injure you, on any account, Miss Varnish. If you mean to ask for a recommendation-why, you see, I would not pain you more than I can avoid, but "But do consider, sir. I have made the promptest amends in my power. It was not without difficulty, not without danger · dreadful, deadly danger, that I rescued your property from that atrocious villain's hands; and, remember, that I might have kept it." 66 Yes, Miss Varnish; I have no desire to "Mr. Campion! I entreat, I implore of undervalue the amends you have made, nor you to listen to me. I know I have behav- the-ba-hum- recovered sense of duty, ed basely-infamously detestably. I which induced you to make it. Well, suphave been under the power of a most atro-pose you were to go let us say to Loncious villain; but I come here now to make don, and let me communicate with you?" amends-full amends." For Mr. Gerald was very fidgetty indeed "Miss-Miss Varnish, I will not say how to get the lady out of his presence, exceedingly painful this affair has been to feeling for which his premature admiration, I'm sure I shall hem-listen with recently very strong in him, accounts in the pleasure to any explanation tending tend- fullest manner. ing to - set the matter in a better light." Oh, sir — dear, kind sir, I've no excuse me. a Miss Varnish had taken this open and confiding way, instead of hinting at what she could do, and bargaining for terms because she was really for the time, quite sick of doing wrong, and because her horrid deceit had met with such a shameful failure. Just as kings enjoy playing at obscurity from time to time, so this unfortunate woman at that hour craved the luxury of doing an honest and open action. But she was no more heartily honest than such a king is really desirous of abandoning his throne for a shop or a plough; and I fear the paper, whose contents Miss Varnish had skimmed, gave her one joy which was not commendable. She gathered from it that her ex-pupil, Emily, whom she had never liked, and who never liked her, would be no longer heiress to Deverington Hall; and she felt a spiteful joy to think of it. Mr. Gerald shortly asked her, if she had money for present necessities. Her affirmative answer did not appear to displease him; and, after a few more words, they parted parted for ever. They were severed asunder as surely and irrevocably as they had, at one time contemplated the being united together. Death alone should then have parted them. Only in the world after death, can they be brought together again. Miss Varnish walked away towards the carriage she had left at the gate, and was driven in it, not to Bridgewater, but to a small station somewhere beyond. "And with much less of self-denial," she mused within herself, as she was borne on her way; with one half of the care, pains, and contrivance I have gone through, I might have been quitting this house with the affectionate regrets of every one in it; and with everything done to smooth my future course, which a wealthy and well-descended family can do which, in England, is a very great deal." Her ultimate fortunes may be rapidly told. Somehow or other she did contrive to gain a situation, a few months later, in an English family residing in Algeria. The steamer in which she took her journey thither was wrecked on the African shore, and those who had known her in England read her name amongst the names of those who perished. This was her end. Mr. Gerald Campion read, through and through, the confession of his unhappy wife. Whence it had been stolen, he could not tell. Indeed, he had not been aware that any such paper had been written. Not a momentary doubt of its being authentic ever crossed his mind. Her handwriting, and the minute narration of circumstances known to himself, were assurances not to be gainsaid. A little while ago, the imminent loss of Deverington and its estates would have had a large share in the grief and shame with which he read the miserable story. But his feelings were strangely modified now. The embarrassment of being known to have contemplated making a very unworthy woman his wife; — the fear lest his own daughter, Emily, presuming on her heirship to an entailed estate, should outrage all prudence in marrying, these thoughts made Deverington Hall and its belongings, things very much less precious to him than they had been. It will be recollected, that when Lady Dalby, at Dieppe, had suggested that Mrs. Herbert Campion might possibly be no longer living, her brother-in-law had resented the idea with a somewhat startling vehemence. The thought was often in his mind -"What if my brother, released by death from all ties to the wife who has deceived him, should enter on another marriage, and become the actual father of an heir to Deverington ? Very uncomfortable had this thought been. But his urgent appeal to Madame Durange, not to mention his having travelled with her, was only dictated by his fear lest his daughter's forbidden lover should gain a knowledge of her retreat. He did not feel so certain but that the sudden journey of Madame to England might have been just a devise of Miss Emily's. He had painful reasons for thinking that his daughter had grown somewhat artful and deceitful. When his eyes were open to the real nature of Miss Varnish, he felt (as we must do) much more allowance for the wrongdoing of one put under her influence; and he thought he could behold, with nearly as much pleasure as pain, the resumption of Deverington by his brother, - now gifted with an heir of his own. Had he felt very differently, it is due to him to say, that he would never have thought for one moment of concealing the discovery. He placed the paper before his brother Herbert the very instant he had himself read it through. How agitating it proved to the elder brother, we should be wasting words in seeking to describe. But we may now explain that r. Campion's behaviour to his daughter, though actuated by a complete and frightful mistake, was in no way so harsh or heartless as it may have appeared. Fully believing her to be Mrs. Roberts's daughter, he had prepared, in strict justice, to give the child into her hands. She had a right to it. His wife's terrible prostration, at his first allusion to the story, had destroyed his hope, his lively hope, that the tale was a horrid calumny; her subsequent aberration of mind, partial and transitory as it was, had interfered to prevent an expla- | losing it, without ever knowing that they nation; and Eliza's wicked fraud, wrought, possessed it. His brother Gerald, much indeed, with no worse purpose than to pre- more than disinterested in the belief, admitvent a wrong, had most fatally sealed the ted that his wife's confession was neither a perpetration of a wrong. forgery nor a falsehood, and was ready to acknowledge his niece, as heir to Deverington, in place of himself. And on the very next day (Friday), and at no late hour, they went down into Cambridgeshire, and halted at the station which lay nearest to Marlby. And now we may reckon ourselves to have done with the sorrows and mischiefs of which mutual treachery - mutual weakness may have been the guilty or unhappy causes. Let us put them away, and refresh ourselves with a foretaste of that happier time, to which we shall shortly consign our friends for ever. Mr. Campion had seen, early in April, 1842, Mr. Ferrier's advertisement of the little girl, lost and found near Euston Square. The place, and the detailed appearance of the child assured him that she was none other than the one whom he had so long considered as his own. Nor did the desertion of her mother appear so very strange a thing to him. He had noted the weak, wayward, nerveless character of poor Mrs. Roberts. Nobody, with much less discernment than his, could be five minutes in her company and not perceive it. It was not unlikely that, one day devoured with anxiety to recover her lost child, she would the next day be murmuring that she had taken such a burthen upon herself. In truth, Mrs. Roberts had imagined Mr. Campion to be privy to his wife's device, and had never intended that matters should be so summarily reversed. As it fell out, we know that she was guiltless of thrusting the child upon the world; but Mr. Campion most naturally thought her guilty. She disliked the burden; she had no stable affection for the girl; and she had thrown her off in the quickest and surest manner. When Mr. Campion saw into what excellent hands the child had fallen, he thought he could do no better than leave her where he found her. It was a dreadful idea, that he could not claim her for his own; but at least he felt no more bound by any duty to betray the sad history. He trusted Mr. Ferrier; but, even then, he did not withdraw all watch over Eva. He heard, through making secret inquiries, that she was growing up in good health, with an excellent education; and (after her patron was dead), in the protection of a satisfactory home; and then he heard that she was likely to be married to Mr. Ferrier's nephew and heir. Assuredly, the very best service he could do her was to be silent upon her origin altogether- and she was his daughter all the while! After some consultation with his brother, he quitted Deverington Hall for London that very evening; the Wednesday evening, you know; and it was the 22nd of October, 1856. He found Mr. Dykhart awaiting him there. Mr. Ballow's professional duties had recalled him to Minchley. Mr. Campion told the Vicar of Croxton how wonderful and important a confirmation of the strange story had awaited him at Deverington Hall, and what a narrow escape they had had of Come to Leamington, and to the house of our friend, Mrs. Ferrier; for now, I hope, she is our friend again. It is early evening, and Saturday, the twenty-fifth of October. Mrs. Ferrier is at her worsted-work, thinking, moreover, that ere the chrysanthemums bloom again in her garden, it will have become time to use her needle in behalf of a certain baby. For Richard is there, and Eva is beside Mrs. Ferrier; and that lady is finding out new perfections in Eva, hour by hour, and wondering more and more however she could have thought so differently. She saysand you would never convince her that she was mistaken that had Richard's bride been akin to all the rogues in London, she would have been but little less acceptable than as she is now. Richard was never informed how horribly near his mother had been to the sleeping partnership in a plotted murder. He may be just aware that Eva's enemies, getting hold of Mrs. Ferrier's strong prejudice, wickedly tried to bend it into an instrument in their hands. But that is all he knows; nor will he ever know more. Mrs. Ferrier was quickly satisfied that Eva's forgiveness was hearty and complete. "When she has children of her own," thought her future mother-in-law," she will understand much of what I felt. God, indeed, forbid that she should copy me in that! but she will understand it; and then, even if not now, she will cease to think hardly of me." Mrs. Ballow was there. Mrs. Ferrier could not rest until she had sought and found a reconciliation in that quarter too. She was sorry not to have Mr. Ballow also; but Minchley wanted him. Sickness would not cease in Buckinghamshire, just because a lady in Warwickshire had turned over a new leaf. So the party in that drawing-ites. Were it possible for Teresa to have room numbered only four. Although a very been claimed by twenty thousand papas and happy party, they were all a little grave; mammas, that Richard would have cut them but it was rather with excess of joy, than out entirely and altogether. with any foreboding of sorrow. That morning had brought the news that a most important confirmation of Eva's claims had suddenly and most strangely offered itself. Any day, any hour might bring Eva into the presence of one or both of her long-lost parents. Hark! wheels before the door! A stop a ring- and then the opening of the door, and voices. Susan comes into the room. Susan has kept up with the sentiments of her mistress, and can see no fault in Miss March, as before she could see no good. Please, ma'am, a lady and a gentleman want to see Miss March." The lady and gentleman are in the hall, and are to be conducted into the diningroom. Miss March will meet them there. It was an overpowering moment; but Eva nerved herself for it, and, in a minute more, went out to meet and greet those who had summoned her. They were her father and her mother. After many years of sorrow and separation their deliverance had now come, and they were joined together by God, as in a holier wedlock than before. The friends whom Eva has left in the drawing-room are well aware by whom she has been summoned. Mrs. Ballow recollects her early prophecy of such a denouement as this, and knows that "the carriage-andfour" has verily come. Eva she will not be offended if we continue to call her so - Eva soon satisfied Mrs Ballow that the dearest of new friends would never make her insensible to the old friends of her childhood and youth. Thrice, within little more than three months, has it befallen her to change one name for another; and she has certainly not done with such changes yet. She is Miss Campion now- but that name is but a transitionary one; and, if Richard had his way, she would not bear it even so long as she bore the pseudonym of Roberts. Mrs. Ferrier was gratified by retaining Mr. and Mrs. Campion to supper. The party were really all too happy to be cheerful. Mrs. Ferrier looked back to that other party, given by herself in July, at which Mrs. Ballow and Eva had also been guests. What a revolution circumstances - some sad, some joyful — had brought about in her feelings since then! And Richard's mother could only bow in thanksgiving to the Ordainer who had overruled her blind resistance, and out of so much evil appointed so much good. Mr. and Mrs. Campion remained at Leamington but a few days. There was much to do, as well as much to enjoy. There were explanations due to friendsfor instance, to the Leyburns of Bestworth. There must be no misunderstanding left which it was at all possible to remove. Nothing must be undone which could enable Mrs. Campion, with security and ease, to resume her place in her family and in society. The Leyburns did their part; and a week was passed by our heroine and her parents at Bestworth Rectory. All were aware that no unworthy persons would ever be admitted into that most comfortable house. And a service was done to Adela, which more genial, trustful people, could never have rendered her; but she would much rather have spent the week at Croxton. The Marlby Home soon found a new and efficient mistress, and its beneficent career goes on widening still. With one painful remembrance upon him, Mr. Dykart is very happy; for the Campion family are much indebted to him for the dispersion of that fearful and fatal mystery which overhung and blighted them so long. It is the carriage-and-four, and not the carriage-and-four. Mr. and Mrs. Campion have come, in a hired and very unassuming conveyance, from the station; but the ending is none the less a real one; and when our heroine returns to the drawing-room, she is, by the full acknowledgment of her father, no longer Eva March, but Teresa Campion. Mrs. Ballow, as she always said she should, feels "horribly jealous" of the parents who have thrust her a step backward in Teresa's heart. But then she bethinks The younger branch of that family must herself that a full revenge will be hers: the receive a little further notice from us here. real and true parents will pretty soon find Gerald resigned himself to the loss of Devout that they are not quite the first favour-erington Hall. We need scarcely say that he was not abandoned to anything resem- put the question, whether it were not as well bling poverty; and the upright, honourable that they should be man and wife; and course pursued by him in late events, won Winifred was not too obstinate to say, that him not only a more cordial esteem from if Mr Dowlas were sure he was in earnest, his brother Herbert, but also a general pop-she should not so much mind. And so marularity long coveted by him in vain. So, ried they were. And neither they, nor if he had a fall, he fell as soft as applause Mr. Dowlas's four children, have ever reand gratitude could enable him to do. pented of the same. Nor did the fall bring any diminution of happiness to his daughter Emily. Her forbidden lover sowed his wild oats, and (as Emily was no longer a great heiress), won her papa's gradual and cautious approval. Mr. Larking had a moderate estate still left him. Emily would have her mother's fortune; and, in course of time, Lady Dalby would doubtless, leave her something. That, indeed, really came to pass about four years ago. Our heroine could not endure to think that her cousin Emily might feel herself unjustly deposed; and, at her very earnest desire, Herbert Campion added greatly to the fortune which his niece would bring to her husband. And Emily, certain that as heiress to Deverington Hall, she would never never have been permitted to marry Rupert, Emily thinks to this hour. that all has happened for the best; and would not envy her cousin for the world. There was a grand Christmas kept at Deverington that year. In the height of its happiness, Miss Campion received a letter, bordered with deep black; and with the Carnarvon postmark on it. Mr. Dowlas's acquired wealth-really the temptation to say so is too great-his wealth was doubly blest to him it gained him the loss of his wife. A prolonged series of champagne suppers brought on a fever, of which poor Mrs. Dowlas died. Her widowed husband's letter, while stating the fact of his bereavement, said nothing about its cause. Eva wrote back as sincere a condolence as truth permitted her to frame. A pleasanter duty was imposed upon her about a year after that. Winifred Williams, the faithful and longenduring servant at Llynbwllyn, gave warning to Mr. Dowlas, as soon as her mistress was buried. Now, her master would have no difficulty at all in gaining or retaining a successor to herself; and she thought she was getting too old for service, and would prefer keeping a small shop. At Mr. Dowlas's urgent desire, she withdrew her warning for just one month longer. By-and-bye, after three or four repetitions of this process, Mrs. Winifred one day affirmed her notice to quit in a manner which announced the decision to be final; and then Mr. Dowlas Those children all turned out tolerably well- very well, indeed, considering the disadvantages of their former years. Poor Mrs. Roberts is living still; calmer and happier, her brother-in-law declares of her, than at the former time. She is but fifty years old now; and. a happy, serene old age a bright autumn succeeding a dreary summer -- is very likely in store for this long afflicted woman. Mr. Dowlas lives at Lllynbwllyn no longger. He has a better living, very near to Tremallyoc. Our heroine has more than once visited the latter place. Tremallyoc House is now, you know, the property of her cousins, the Leyburns. She could never bear to visit Lllynbwllyn; but there is, at all times, a cordial feeling between herself and the Dowlas family -once falsely received by her as her kindred. Let me see! Is there anybody else, whose destiny ought to be written down, before we dismiss them for ever? I scarcely know of any. The Ballows continue to prosper, as they deserve. Mrs. Check rejoices in her young friend's due exaltation, and calls everybody to witness the fulfilment of her own predictions - predictions which were never made. But the good woman has no idea of saying anything but the truth. And so, we may come to the final fact of all. It will be remembered that the six months' delay insisted upon by Eva, would have terminated on the 7th January, 1857. That time of waiting, as things had declared themselves, was robbed of all significance now. Nevertheless, by a rather curious coincidence, the 7th of January was the day on which it was ultimately decided that Richard and Eva should be joined together. They were united at Deverington Church. Mr. Dykhart, assisted by Leyburn, did all the Church required. Although it was January, the sun shone liberally on the bride, and not through any frosty sky, but through a soft, kind air, such as April itself does not always bring. They were married; and now what more is there left for us to say? That they were very happy? Very happy they were; very happy they are. Very happy, we are permitted to hope, they will always continue to be. Happy, with no such impossi |